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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170935">if you were church</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise'>doorwaytoparadise</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A lot of introspection, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Implied Sexual Content, M/M, gratuitous use of religious metaphors, this is like two thirds to divinity kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:02:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>825</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170935</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>‘<i>Consume me, destroy me, remake me.</i>’ Crowley thinks, but doesn’t say.</p>
<p>‘<i>Be still, be at peace, be loved.</i>’ Aziraphale thinks, and tries his best to say it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>if you were church</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘<em> Consume me, destroy me, remake me. </em>’ Crowley thinks, but doesn’t say.</p>
<p><em> Consume me </em>, and Crowley wants to slot himself beneath Aziraphale’s breastbone, let their ribs lock together so he can never be pulled away, fully sync his heartbeat to Aziraphale’s. Let the angel devour him completely, feed on the meat and wine of his body, of his all-consuming desire. Aziraphale can have his fill, take and take and Crowley would welcome him, welcome and long for and beg for Aziraphale to turn gluttonous eyes and hands and mouth on him and him alone. </p>
<p><em> Destroy me </em>, he wants Aziraphale to take his fresh-clay soul, the serpent flexibility of him, and mould him into something else, grind down the awful writhing hissing thing beneath his skin and smite it. He is ash, he is dust, he is crawling on his belly in the dirt at Aziraphale’s feet, and he wants the angel to strike him down. Make a mess of him, push him to his knees, hold him down hard enough to leave bruises, then mark him until even his blood will say he belongs to Aziraphale. Crowley wants to fill his mouth with Aziraphale like a sacrament, until it overflows and tumbles from his lips, until he is submerged, he is drowning, he is baptized.</p>
<p><em> Remake me </em>, and Crowley remembers stars spinning out from his fingertips, fire and light against the void. Aziraphale is fire and light, brighter than the cosmos, holy and beautiful, and Crowley is darkness, an empty cavern yearning to be filled. Aziraphale can shape him into something better, something that can face all the crashing and crushing force of Aziraphale’s love and not wither and break like he feels he might. Like Aziraphale pressing words of love into his lips isn’t undoing him just as much as taking Aziraphale inside him. Maybe the angel can pull at the flesh, the muscles and sinew and bones, take apart this human corporation and find the fathomless sky-wide core of him. Maybe he can drag his hands through it and leave trails of something beautiful, something his; paint his own starry night right into Crowley’s essence. Crowley lays himself out like an offering and waits, always waits, for Aziraphale.</p>
<p>=</p>
<p>‘<em> Be still, be at peace, be loved </em>.’ Aziraphale thinks, and tries his best to say it.</p>
<p><em> Be still </em>, and Crowley is an always moving, always circling being, too fast too fast too fast. Aziraphale tracks him with his eyes, follows the winding lines of his spine, his hips, his arms. He reaches out and buries his fingers in the restlessness of him, flexes his hands and holds him in place, not to tie him down but to cherish him. Aziraphale lays him out and thinks maybe, maybe, he can press his weight down and keep Crowley grounded, maybe he can cut his teeth on skin, on scales, take him on his tongue like communion, open himself in welcome, and Crowley will finally find rest in the ringing aftershocks of his love. </p>
<p><em> Be at peace </em> , because Crowley has always been glancing over both of their shoulders, careful and cunning and wary. He has spent millenia aching and asking, a storm of feelings sitting in a chest too narrow and tight to hold them. Aziraphale wants to wring the ache out of him, pull it like a poison from his veins, find the edge he’s been standing on and push him off, but only so he can catch him. Aziraphale draws hymns from serpent lips, swallows them inside of himself, sings them back. Crowley has been chasing after him for so long, Aziraphale won’t just let him catch up: Aziraphale turns and meets him halfway. Crowley has suffered enough. Aziraphale will carry them both for a while.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Be loved </em> , and Aziraphale has seen it, all this time, he isn’t stupid and he can literally sense love. Crowley has loved him for a long time, and it's a love that is almost devastating, a forest fire leaping from the trees, and Aziraphale is still water by contrast. Crowley has run, jumped, skipped his way through time, always changing himself, but still always wiles and temptation and love for an angel. Crowley is not satisfied, not settled, like he took on human form and never quite fit into the skin, too much bundled into too little. Aziraphale wants him to sit inside himself and for once not want to leave. Every kiss, every embrace, every touch, every fuck, Aziraphale tries to tell him, tries to say desperately, <em> my darling, I love you. I love, have loved, will love you, always, just as you are and everything that entails </em>. When Crowley wraps around him, head thrown back and Aziraphale’s name on his lips, and Aziraphale too is spilling over with love and ecstasy, this is where Crowley can find his quiet. This is where Aziraphale can find his absolution, in one blinding, ringing, mutual confession. Heaven can be a simpler place.</p>
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